


Crossfire

by PTWL



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/F, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Not Beta Read, POV First Person, Pining, Religious Guilt, Sexual Repression, dancing and armwrestling, there is a tad of nsfw at the end, this is horny but in feeling and not so much in content, this is just Junia crushing on people and swooning over them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PTWL/pseuds/PTWL
Summary: Dear diary,I, who have faced countless dangers, lay afraid today. This fear is not for my safety but the state of my mind and my sacred oath. The Hamlet is a lonely place yet, in this barracks, many of us have found true companions to aid us during the merciless expeditions. However, when the town lights up and revelry is let loose, certain thoughts of inappropriateness cloud my mind. I praise the Light to bring me clarity, for I understand it is human to find joy in the company of those of trust, but these feelings endanger my holy purity.
Relationships: Crusader/Hellion (Darkest Dungeon), Crusader/Highwayman (Darkest Dungeon), Crusader/Vestal (Darkest Dungeon), Dismas/Vestal (Darkest Dungeon), Hellion/Vestal (Darkest Dungeon), just weird combinations of all four of them
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	Crossfire

**Author's Note:**

> Am I proud of this? Not fully. Is it long as fuck and so I'm going to post it anyway? Of course.  
> The porn part is minimal, in the end, and not even very graphic. This is mostly Junia going mad about crushing on hot people.  
> I dislike very much writing in first person and past tense but that's the only way a salacious diary entry could work so...  
> Enjoy?

Dear diary,

I, who have faced countless dangers, lay afraid today. This fear is not for my safety but the state of my mind and my sacred oath. The Hamlet is a lonely place yet, in this barracks, many of us have found true companions to aid us during the merciless expeditions. However, when the town lights up and revelry is let loose, certain thoughts of inappropriateness cloud my mind. I praise the Light to bring me clarity, for I understand it is human to find joy in the company of those of trust, but these feelings endanger my holy purity.

I find myself in deep worry about the events that may take place during this week. The Hamlet is amidst its town fair, which will last for the whole week. Though I’m still fatigued from my last expedition, since the Heiress requests my skills often, I can’t help but feel an ounce of envy of those poor adventurers who have to leave to the dungeons this week. If I were between their ranks, I wouldn’t have to deal with this treachery of my mind.

My struggle began yesterday morning. My companions in the female living quarter had been discussing that, since we shall be joining the celebration, there would be little need for armors or weapons. However, it wasn’t that what caught the attention of my half-asleep wondering mind, was the promise of dancing. Then, Audrey, that Lightforsaken woman, had to imply that maybe my usual religious attire would hinder my movements if I wanted to join the dancing. Now I see she was merely taunting me since I must confess I fell for it.

However, the issue is that I normally hair tape my hair into a crown so it is more comfortable while wearing my coif. After cleaning, though, with my hair wet, I was unable to undo the cords by myself. Most of the women were already done reading themselves or already out of the barracks so I was compelled to look for aid somewhere else. Light sent me a crusader on the run. Sir Reynauld, cleverly reading the highwayman’s dubious offer to help him cut his hair as a clue of mischief, was avoiding the scoundrel despite the great bond of camaraderie between them.

I am a woman of faith, consecrated to the Light just as Sir Reynauld. And yet I felt a wave of uneasiness crash through me. It reminded me of the first time I laid eyes on his face, already a year ago, at the beginning of this madness. The soldier had taken a powerful blow when a skeleton’s rusty blade feinted him and struck between his bascinet and his gorget. After the fight, Paracelsus had taken his helmet off to take a closer look at the wound. Ever since I must confess I’ve been biased towards the knight. But only the light of the sun can do him justice when he isn’t struggling to recover from a grievous injury. Boudica’s hair is a fiery thing but, though redhead as well, Reynauld’s is earthier. In truth, I find myself unable to decide which I fancy better…

Anyway, back to yesterday morning. With only minimum levels of stuttering, I was capable of sharing with him the issue that was bothering me. Though compromising, Sir Reynauld offered his aid. I found it impossible to reject his kindness. However, I found enough judgment in myself to make him swear on his honor as a knight that his intentions were friendly and would bring no harm to me, as such intimacy if generally frowned upon in my order. Strangely, his swiftness to accept my terms bothered me slightly. I shortly wondered if mayhaps he found me plain-looking compared to his former wife but it certainly can’t be so. He wouldn’t have made such a proposition if he thought me displeasing to be around.

I doubt I would like to feel such embarrassment again though he was always careful not to bring me pain as he undid the stitches. I am uncertain if having one of my roommates around would have been more embarrassing because of the possible gossip or it would have stilled me, dispelling the feeling that we were hiding. Sitting on my bunk, with a man behind me touching my hair… I understand that morals are laxer in this far away Hamlet but it still managed to make me feel agitated. Without his armor, his shirt sleeves grew slightly moist as he redid my hairstyle. Once it was over, they were clinging to his forearms like a second skin.

Sir Reynauld seemed concerned about the roughness of his hands and he asked sweetly for my forgiveness in case he had brought me discomfort. I had to reassure him that I was not in any form of pain because of him but, deep down, I know I was untruthful back then because my legs were pressed tight together and I was grasping my knees as if to endure my inner turmoil with some semblance of dignity. I was relieved when he parted with more gentle words and only the slightest brush on his hand on mine, yet my irritation only settled further inside me.

Wearing a light summer habit, thinner than the one’s suitable for dungeon delving, to fight the early May warmth, I dedicated my whole body and soul to attend to the faithful in the Abbey that morning. It eased the heat that had taken home in my underbelly. I committed myself to prayer and the rituals of the Light. The abbot graciously praised my diligence though it felt almost fatherly, far from the chivalrous tenderness of Sir Reynauld’s words.

However, I was soon to be put on trial again. The Abbey had an agreement with the local Tavern and they both were going to organize a night feast for the villagers and mercenaries all around the Hamlet. The abbot is a pious man and his heart would break if anyone was put aside during the celebration. He had even given us soldiers of the Faith, much like Sir Reynauld and myself, explicit instructions to behave courteously even to the thin man in rags or the seeker of the eldritch, for we are emissaries of the Light, who wants its children to rejoice as brothers and sisters if such a thing is possible.

So I set forth to the town plaza to aid setting the long tables for the night. I had been tasked with carrying a few planks so the carpenter would take care of them. Though I’m no stranger to heavy labor, these days have been too warm for the time of the year so it wasn’t a pleasant job. I did not notice the Boudica approaching me until she lifted my burthen from my arms with easiness. Despite our differences, I have worked with her many times and I know she is trustworthy. Even if it mildly displeases me that she might behave as she does because she thinks me frail, I have figured out that is her way to show she cares.

Sometimes I feel like she’s trying to divert me. She would carry too much weight on her own, walking backward to keep looking my way as we talk. I had to insist for a while so she would let me move some planks on my own. I know it was far less impressive than what she does daily but Boudica still seemed flabbergasted. Far from feeling belittled by her reaction, I couldn’t help but embrace the speck of pride within me. She very kindly suggested a few tips for me to correct my form though there was a certain pause to her voice, making them heavier than usual.

At times I feel like these pages are the only place where I can be sincere both with myself and with the Light without feeling any judgment so I must be frank. I have developed an unexpected taste for Boudica’s company, even eccentric and heretical as she might appear at first glance. We spent lunch and most of the noon together, as villagers began to gather around the Hamlet’s plaza. She told me about the progress she had recently made in her learning. Her reading is getting faster every day and her handwriting, clearer. For a woman so brave, she shifts often when I assist her with this big project of hers, restlessly waiting for some sort of validation.

Yesterday was no different. I remember glancing at her hands, with a few spots of dried ink over them, and losing track of whichever correction I was going to point out to her. Though far from a proper lady, Boudica still has some sort of charm to her. After succeeding in many quests beside her, I have grown used to her outlandish habits. From her vocabulary to her usual curtness. However, I still find myself struggling to deal with her choice of clothing. Despite practical, there is this cultural shock whenever I truly give myself enough time to think about it. Her arms are bare and large. If I were to grasp them, my fingers would barely be able to sink in her muscle. What is more, I’ve seen her take off the upper part of her garments down in those awful dungeons without an ounce of shame to treat injuries. Each time I grow more convinced that she does not wear it for modesty but to support her bosom. Not even with men around her, she seems to care. William is polite enough to avoid glancing at her, ever mindful. Yet, despite my abashment, at times like those, I find myself striving against the urge to drink in such sight. I could glance at her back for the whole camping. I fight this longing constantly since it drove me out from the convent. And still, this Lightforsaken place seems to feed it larger and more unmanageable.

As our fellow adventurers began to arrive, the town’s center grew more active. A citizen asked me to assist with lighting the torches. Later, at midnight, it is tradition to burn a light a large bonfire made of straw, blazing the crown of madness down to ashes. It symbolizes the Light raining justice down to even the darkest corners and freeing us from evil. The Heiress said that, as the day grows even larger than night, the Summer season begins in the fields by the Hamlet. Boudica mentioned that her people also have a similar tradition, though they call it Beltaine. The Hamlet is often a somber place but this short-lived merriment does suit it. It only makes my will to fight back against those horrors ever larger, so these people might live free from their chains.

I understand the Heiress’s intention to make the whole roster sit at the same table as a family would. Though bonds between us are often complicated, at times like these it is all more the obvious how lonely she feels amidst this crusade. With her Ancestor gone and unable to guide her, she overexerts herself for our sake. She probably just wants to feel this carefree atmosphere around her, air filled with laughter and the smell of alcohol and stew.

Though I rarely attend the Tavern as much as many of my companions, I couldn’t help but feel intoxicated by the joyous environment of our table, crowded as it was. We even made some spare room so Bigby, who was roaming, uncertain about joining the celebration, could sit with us as well. My shoulder bumped against Sir Reynauld’s pauldron as we shifted closer on the bench. He had left his bascinet aside for the day but not his inseparable armor. Though he was quick to ask for my forgiveness, he looked distracted. Thankfully, Dismas wasn’t able to get his way with the crusader’s hair so he was pretending to be irked at him. When trying to rile Sir Reynauld up, he calls him “tinman” but, when drunk, Dismas only calls him “Rey”. Last night the “tinman”s only lasted for the first five minutes we were sitting together.

Even during the haze of that chaotic dinner, I remember clearly when Audrey leaned across the table to clasp Dismas’ wrist as if hit by a sudden realization. Even now I can recall her words with precision. “My, my, I know no shortage of dames that would merrily give away their pearls if that meant they got to have a wrist so thin”. Far from showing irritation at her, he merely laughed with his full lungs. Dismas even had the audacity to ask if she was jealous but Audrey tried to defend that her outline was already flawless. I couldn’t help but find some truth in her words as Dismas’ wrists are slim things. We are even in height and, without his coat or his protections, with just an oversized sweatshirt, he is visibly undernourished. His features are sharp and the light shade of stubble only makes them crisper. Despite being such a strong contrast to most people that strike my fancy, Audrey’s remark caught my attention.

When I first arrived at this Hamlet, I thought it would be better for me to avoid Dismas company as much as possible. Nevertheless, he has proved to be a reliable man time and time again and he is protective of the recruits in his way. His humor might be ribald but I have caught myself chuckling at his japes more than once down in those corridors when despair clouds my mind and brings tears to my eyes, tearing a smile from me and many others. Audrey herself knows this well. I remember this once when we were together in the Ruins. The noblewoman was having palpitations and her usually spotless makeup was smudged by sweat and sobbing. Dismas knelt beside her and took off her glove, he ran a finger through the lines of her palm and brightly chirped “Luck and love and long life!”, and by how he smiled as if he believed it himself, it gave Audrey just enough bravery to press on for the rest of the expedition.

The Grave Robber has always been amiable to him but even more so since that quest. However, it’s crystal clear that their relationship is purely platonic, almost fraternal to some extent. And yet, as dinner was done and the music grew louder, she held her hand out for him without even a thought. He said today morning that he only danced with her because it was her who asked him. However, back then he stood and picked the ends of his coat to do a small curtsey as a lady would with a gown with absolute confidence. Audrey led him graciously and, later, Paracelsus joined them, giving in to their request.

If I’m true to myself, I wasn’t able to tear my eyes away from them, feeling that yearning within me taking over me. Not even when other couples began to flood the town center, most of them civilians but some were other adventurers as well. I can vaguely recall Amari dancing back and forth, probably with Barristan, the Man-at-Arms, and William. And, as enjoyable as it is to watch Amari dance, I was enraptured by the sight of bony limbs and lithe movement.

I only blinked away from my daydreaming when Reynauld stood up beside me, I felt the loss of that simple graze of his shoulder against mine like a burn and turned around in confusion only watch as he offered the Heiress a dance. She always wears her Ancestor’s large overcoat over her shoulders, almost like a cape. Reynauld nimbleness caught me off guard. With her overcoat swirling each time he spun her around, it was nearly impossible to look away. Sitting there, on my own, unable to move onward or retreat, I was trapped between this impulse and my guilt.

I don’t truly want to think about which sort of disheartened grimace must have been upon my face right then because Boudica sensed my distress and sat beside me, probably to indulge me. Still, she looked fidgety sitting by my side, glancing wherever I was looking as if trying to get a glimpse of what was running through my mind. I shall thank the Light for not making me spontaneously combust when she asked me whether I wanted to dance. I dared not look her way, concerned about her reaction. It was fairly obvious I did and yet part of me told me I had to refuse her. Boudica is far more insightful than most people would give her credit for and I should pay more mind to it in the future because she nodded and decided not to press further after watching me conflicted. Was I appeased or remorseful by going back to our restless status quo? I don’t know yet.

Had I accepted her, we would have danced before the whole Hamlet. Our companions, our contractor, the abbot, the blacksmith, civilians… The thought crawls into the back of my head, self-consciousness painfully digging its way into my brain like the howl of one of those awful creatures. And yet… Wouldn’t it have been liberating? To move freely and laugh aloud and clear for everyone to hear? I knew back then that, this craving that gnaws on me, Boudica also suffers from it. Such sudden awareness only terrified me further. She was still glancing at the dancing couples, avoiding any form of eye-contact with me. But not the same could be said about me. I drank whilst I could the sight of her fiery hair, the shape of her ear, the color of her skin under torch-light…

Courage was taking shape, growing inside me. This powerful sensation was taking over me but it was almost welcome. I could feel the question at the back of my tongue, savoring it before letting it out into the world. And then the spell broke. Sir Reynauld came back, not even breaking into a sweat, albeit breathing heavily. He laid out his hand for me, either not reading the ambiance or not caring about it. The question was clear and I did want to go but Boudica… I was torn between the two of them, as though they were pulling at me from opposite directions, threatening to rive me in two identical halves. He lifted my hand with barely two fingers and the next thing I knew what that I was on my feet. I took a last peek at Boudica hesitantly. I can picture with stark clarity the hardly contained rage in her features, jaw clenched and eyes fixated. Her hand tightened around her stein. I could only pray to the Light that such anger wasn’t directed at me but, if it wasn’t, then at whom? At Reynauld? I don’t want him to pay the price for my indecisiveness, not when I have accepted him willingly.

I cannot remember the last time I danced with anyone. It probably was before I joined the Faith. Perhaps it was at a fair like this one, back when I was merely a child. If I try to picture the face of the boy my age I used to fancy back then, there is only a blank space where his face used to be. Whether I managed to dance with him or not, I seem unable to figure out. But I do remember my father, I remember running out of air because he would tickle me each time he picked me in his arms, lifting me in the air, which was often.

Long years have passed ever since and, in truth, I had no experience as a grown woman dancing with a grown man. Reynauld seemed to realize so after barely a couple of inelegant steps because he leaned forth to ask me to just follow his lead, reassuring me that he would take care of anything else. Yet I am no young noblewoman of high birth as our employer is and the fear of making a fool of myself was clawing its way under my skin. I am grateful that he decided to wear his armor to the fair because I wouldn’t have been able to moderately concentrate had his hands been bare, his warmth in direct contact with me again.

Despite my initial hesitation, my anxious shuddering receded as the soft swaying lulled me into a brittle reverie. My chest, though, it hurt. Between two empty lungs, it ached whenever Sir Reynauld smiled my way even if I had surely stepped on him at least a dozen of times, pulling me closer to his chest or twirling me between his arms. I thought briefly that I could get used to this soreness, this sharp puncture deep into my ribcage. I have known Sir Reynauld since Paracelsus and I arrived at this Flame-forsaken Hamlet, nearly a lifetime ago. Surely he should have realized in the precise instant in which music died and I kept peering at his features how smitten I truly am. Light is unforgiving at times because I fear I underestimated his denseness. If only there was a way to swap chests with someone, only a minute would be enough for him to understand the true reach of his actions. Or so I hope.

A gentle poke to the shoulder drove his attention away from me. Whenever Sir Reynauld looked over his shoulders, Dismas would move away in the other direction, so he couldn’t see him. However, rather than vexed at him, there was this raw warmth when Dismas chit-chated gleefully about some nonsense of “filling his dance card” and “stealing Rey away from me”. Sir Reynauld seemed delighted with the idea but I had no time to react before he raised my hand to his lips, leaving only the slightest brush against my knuckles as a farewell. Even obviously drunk, Dismas is indeed leagues more graceful than I’ll ever have the right to be. If I close my eyes, I can still watch him reach for Sir Reynauld’s nape, fingers brushing the thin hair at the back of his head. He whispers something at his dance partner, tearing a sudden fit of laughter from Reynauld, loud and unapologetic.

I retreated to the main table, dazed and coping with the lingering craving inside me. This closeness, this motion, had only made it more persistent. Though not as much as dancing, walking was no easy task. My knees were weak and I felt like they could barely support me. It was as if my weight had doubled. While my chest ached from empty lungs, there was this hefty core in my lower stomach that was just as distracting.

The sound of commotion drove me back into my surroundings. A small crowd had begun to gather around our table. I heard the guild master shouting instructions at someone. I had to slowly make my way between the throng to have a glance. I found it nearly impossible to move forward without shoving anyone out of my way but I managed to get close enough to get a glimpse standing on my tip-toes. There she was again. She was laughing in a frenzy as Barristan retreated, bowing to her in gracious defeat. Boudica was noticeably more inebriated that when I left her. Also louder and jollier.

Another contender drew near. Tardif offered his arm to her and some groups of the crowd began placing their bets. I couldn’t help the feeling of wrongness of witnessing so. As a woman of the Faith, it is forbidden that I partake in such activities, as many others. I only drink moderately so I seldom visit the Tavern. And yet, I can’t deny that there is some sort of attraction in this kind of brutality. Tardif tried his best to endure but he eventually fell as well with a deep snort, leaving the table in a rush to avoid facing the humiliation. Boudica only boasted louder still. As her games progressed, I found myself magnetized to her. I began moving forwards, hoping that the agonizing throb in my chest would let me live long enough to make it closer.

Boudica was on a winning streak and she looked unconquerable from her seat in the common bench. Not even Damian was able to make her arm touch the table. By the time Amari grasped her hand I was already in the front row. Not that I could give my support out loud or find my voice, fixated on the tension of her back and her forearm. I breathed out in relief when the guild-master hit the table, announcing again Boudica’s victory.

Then, Dismas, oh, that scoundrel is stealthy, he brushed my lower back. He had the nerve to look taken aback when I clenched his wrist forcefully on instinct. He quickly wriggled out of my hold but still leaned in for only me to hear, covering his mouth with his kerchief. Up close, despite his already greying hair, his eyelashes remained raven black and his eyes sharp and expressive. He whispered, trying to lure me into betting with him. I am no fresh-off-the-convent novice and Dismas has been forbidden the entrance to the Gambling Hall ever since Sir Reynauld and he arrived with the Heiress to the Hamlet. I rejected him, yet he did not back away. He was asking me again when Boudica fiercely pointed her finger at Sir Reynauld across the multitude, proclaiming the utterly perplexed crusader as her “eternal rival” at the top of her lungs.

As I write these pages, the second-hand embarrassment is still fresh but Light knows I had to avert my eyes from the scene for a moment. Even after my refusal, Dismas remained close and he shrank into himself trying his best not to roar with laugher. I found myself nudging at his side so he wouldn’t make me chuckle as well. Even with his kerchief up to his nose, mirth changes his expression to something else. He’s remarkably striking. Dismas stole a glance at me as Sir Reynauld naïvely accepted Boudica’s challenge, with almost childish enthusiasm. The rascal prodded at my side and now I’m certain that he was nibbling at his lip under that bandana of his. Did his teeth graze over the scar that crosses them? Part of me wants to hope they did.

Despite being unable to understand the situation, Sir Reynauld was delighted to find some friendly competition. I still don’t think Boudica saw his positive response as anything else than a taunt. Should I correct her before this gets out of hand? I can’t help but pray to the holy Flame this new-found rivalry brings no complications to future expeditions. Sir Reynauld is often good-natured and sensible when questing but, when other matters are at hand, I must concede he is a bit of a simpleton. It’d be almost endearing if it wasn’t so exasperating. Sometimes, I’m puzzled at how a man like him managed to marry at all. I only needed to look sideways at Dismas to know he wonders so as well.

In a display of… Only Light and Boudica know what, she took her upper layer off, leaving her naked to the waist. There was quite the commotion but I want to guess she was trying to intimidate him with her strength before the match began. Sir Reynauld was startled for a moment but he is a gentleman and he didn’t even glance down. He just merrily offered his arm to her so they could position themselves correctly. From our position, we couldn’t look at Boudica’s face but I doubt she enjoyed his overly-friendly approach.

In truth, I have worked with both of them for a long time and it was obvious this match was going to be tied. Even with a clear winner, it would not soil the loser’s reputation or mean they are less capable. And still, I found it unbearable. I anxiously reached for the cuff of Dismas’ overcoat and he allowed me to lean into him without a complaint or any form of teasing.

With their hands pressed together, I watched in awe as Boudica’s shoulders became taut. Sir Reynauld’s smile faded along with the friendliness in his gaze. I wonder if that is his usual expression under his bascinet while questing: focused, cold, razor-sharp. The guild master hit the table to let the match begin.

Theirs was not a short match to be decided in seconds with a sudden burst of strength but a battle or resistance. I feared that Boudica would be too worn out from her previous showdowns to hold her ground but, somehow, she seemed to find renewed energies in this one-sided rivalry. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a trouble to embark on an expedition with both of them if they were able to push each other to new limits. The Heiress was there to witness this little competition so it wouldn’t surprise me if she decided to test them soon.

There was little movement at first but, with great effort and patience, Sir Reynauld was slowly bringing Boudica’s arm closer to the table. He didn’t look relieved but like he was trying to push a whole building with just his arms. She wasn’t going to give up to her rival without a fight and I still marvel at how Boudica’s arm tensed, veins in plain sight, as she tried to tip the scale in her favor. She made it back to their starting position. This tug-of-war of theirs was draining both of them until they couldn’t hold the even position for long, moving back and forth. At last, Boudica began to overcome him though it was no easy task to accomplish.

By my side, Dismas shifted, hiding his nose under his neckerchief, discontent. In that haze, I understood perfectly even with my guts divided and caught in a hasty crossfire. No result could fully satisfy me for I long for them both. Yet I rejoiced all the same when Sir Reynauld’s hand hit the table and Boudica suddenly stood up with a loud victorious roar. It was guttural and unrestrained, like no other sound I could have ever thought a woman could make. But Boudica is not just any other woman and, with each turn of the moon, I know it clearer that it is no jealousy what drives these thoughts inside me.

Sir Reynauld bowed courteously and offered his arm in a handshake for Boudica to take. But instead, she raised his hand as if he had been the winner, cheering for her rival. He tried to reach for her hanging upper layer to cover her again to keep a semblance of modesty. The awkward image made me chortle, letting go of Dismas’ cuff. He wasn’t tense anymore. He even jested, saying I should have accepted his wager. He seemed way too sure I would have betted for Boudica, and maybe I would, but it irked me that he thought so. Dismas brushed it aside, claiming that he would never bet against “Rey” as if it was obvious.

The nickname didn’t catch me off guard but his certainty did. He sounded like, were Sir Reynauld to promise him he would wrestle the Swine God without any armor or equipment, he would still be sure of his victory. In truth, I cannot tell which of them is more of a fool. Dismas disappeared in a blink. That blackguard was probably off once again to deprive anybody else of Sir Reynauld’s presence. As greedy as he is, I can only hope he was successful.

Sarmenti came from where the musicians were sitting, pushing Baldwin into the table. Despite the leper’s hesitation, he demanded another match, introducing him as the greater threat. The only one able to overthrow Boudica. I must confess that his speech did amuse me, yet I had had enough for the day so I took the chance to retreat into the women’s dorm when it was empty.

Without a single noise around me, I found myself alone with my wandering mind. I tried closing my eyes to sleep a thousand times but, at each attempt, my thoughts would offer me images that grew more suggestive with each attempt. I tried to fight them, to cover myself with my sheets as if I was a child again and those were but imaginary monsters of the night. No covers could keep me from their reach. They tightened around me and I could not remember any prayer to drive them away.

I feared that this fever would overtake me whole if I were to fall asleep. However, being awake was of no help either, since I had to endure it. I curled up, trying to ease the itch with some slow breathing but not even the methodic meditation of St. Martha could weaken this sickness of mind and body. I have felt it before, even often, I am ashamed to say, but last night its grip over me was suffocating. I would never get such an opportunity again: the barracks were empty and the night was still young, my companions would still take a long while to come back. Possibly even hours.

It has been years since I last ventured into such indulgence, back in my cell at the convent, but this madness was threatening to drive me to insanity if I were not to find release and peace soon. So I yielded to those pictures flashing behind my closed eyelids and let them wash over me.

It felt like waking up from heavy sleep, thousands of feet underwater and sinking even deeper. This massive pressure should have crushed me at that very moment. And yet it didn’t. There was still no peace in me. I had to dwell deeper into those figures forming at the back of my mind. At first, I tried recalling their march. Boudica’s well defined back and the tangible tension between them. But it did them no justice and the loud background noise of chatter couldn’t keep my attention. I had to fabricate something else that could cater to my needs. This unexpected rivalry, though, could very well be of use to me.

Boudica has never been shy of showing off her prowess or her image. And I have had to patch Sir Reynauld up enough times to be familiar to some extent with what’s beneath his cuirass. Though I hope it didn’t have to involve so much getting his ribs crushed by a mace or his guts impaled by a Bone Lancer… At times, they wrestle in the guild so I tried to picture how it would look like with less equipment. I still find it amusing, that my first thought was resorting to violence to find comfort in it. Soon, there was no ring and the holds turned less aggressive. Boudica’s fingernails scraped into his neck, leaving furious red stripes. They bit and scratched and pushed each other around, clashing for control.

Yet there was no place for me between this competition. I had to take a different approach. Boudica behind me, her bare chest pressed flat against my exposed back. My arms would be reaching for her hair to hold onto, pulling her into a vicious kiss. In my reverie, I sat astride her flexed legs, stripped, as the Light made us. It was finally working. Motion was my curse and its only cure. One of them could not satiate this urge so I focused on this pain in my chest, to transform it into Sir Reynauld’s weight over me. I have no shortage of experience in infirmaries so I know how men look in the altogether. Yet I’m not that much of a fool to convince myself that the image in mind was realistic.

I tried to find solace as I pictured hands, teeth, and beard. It would surely leave some sort of scratching, tender skin flushed from excessive attention, and coarse hair. I still wonder: would it hurt to walk come morning with chafed thighs? Would it be worth the stinging? I have no manner to know so I swapped them. Boudica would be easier to hold into because of her long hair and Sir Reynauld’s motion was easier to mimic on my own.

Still, I sensed that something was lacking. How could it be possible? Why would the Light create this terrible avarice within one of its sworn followers? Is it truly a test like the Mother Superior used to say? If so, then I’ve already failed miserably. Yet everything the Light does serves a reason. If its will is for me to desire, then who am I to reject its ways?

When well-built shapes, pale skin, and red hair failed to suffice me, I followed my intuition. Though I might not be the most insightful woman, I am confident in my judgment. I needed little explanation of the nature of Sir Reynauld’s affections towards Dismas. His wrists slim and supple figure. And dark dark dark hair and eyes even darker, if such a thing is possible. Quite the contrast from the usual triggers of my craving. Yet only then I could fully picture how true thirst would morph Sir Reynauld’s expression. Both longing and urgent, resembling the way Boudica glances at me when she thinks I am not paying attention. Not as violent as with Boudica, yet not as cautious as with myself. I know it’s certainly how it would work between them.

I have some rudimentary knowledge about how two men make the beast with two backs yet, the images I formed of Dismas were different. He was on his back, yes, and his thighs spread like a woman’s, but for me. Sir Reynauld already had his mouth and throat. How would he sound without restrains? Possibly as if taking a heavy blow? By movement alone, it would be impossible to tell whether Dismas was within me or me inside him. One lean leg pushing my hips closer and another over my shoulder. That offbeat thought turned out to be more appealing than intended.

Only now, with some perspective, I can realize the actual meaning of this daydream. If I want to suffocate this yearning within me I can no longer relegate myself to a passive role. I must take the reins of it and set myself to work. A difficult and imposing task, I know, yet one I can only overcome on my own.

Lastly, I was able to find long-denied comfort as I lingered on my mental image of Boudica’s form with this novel confidence and restlessness in me. I was suddenly captivated by the mere idea of her responding to my ministrations. The aching receded and my clarity was back. That was all I could have ever prayed for.

After, freshening up, I could finally find some welcomed and serene sleep. Not even in those exceptionally rare good weeks in this Hamlet have I been able to find such rest or as quickly. Most of the time, it feels like the constricting feeling of doom crawled out of the dungeons to follow we adventurers wherever we go. Not last night. With my torment gone, I was finally free of its gruesome grip.

Luck is a fickle thing though and I woke up early in the morning to find Boudica curled beside me. The poor soul was probably too drunk to climb into her bunk, above mine. Still, it was intrusive of her not to ask for my permission. And, worst of all, it rekindled this heat I had to risk so much to soothe, warm and creeping inside me. Both at the core of my stomach and caged at the center of my chest. It was less dire than the previous night but just as torturous.

When she shifted and her arm let go of my waist, I fled for my sake. This determination that I had found last night was suddenly buried once more beneath worries, doubts, and the weight of my guilt. I have tried with all my might to placate this itch but no prayer or meditation seems to work for anything else than leaving me alone with my treacherous thoughts.

That’s how I found myself secluded in the upper study rooms of the Athenaeum writing down my misfortune to place them somewhere that isn’t my head. Maybe like this, I will be able to find a way to cope with this situation. However, as hours go by and I flick through the many long pages I have binge-written in my lust-induced delirium, I find myself horrified. This diary is no book of prayers and nothing that’s ever been set on these pages should lay bare for any eyes but mine. And yet it haunts me.

I should probably throw this diary to the fireplace and let the flames take good care of my incriminating words. It would be obviously less taxing than this exhaustive writing of mine. But I cannot. Scorching a few pieces of paper would not cleanse me. It would only leave me again on my own and with little perspective once time goes by. So I’ve taken a decision, though I know I might come to regret it. If the Holy Flame does not wish to deliver me from this sin, I should not give up this diary. For I must know myself if I wish to live through the crisis that befalls me.

Dear diary,

Might Light have mercy on me because now I shall face the six remaining days of this week.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I wish I was like Junia and could write all that in a day instead of two weeks but guess I win because I've wifi and can watch hours of Butcher's Circus gameplay when I should be writing.  
> I hope this wasn't awful to read.
> 
> PS: I, _for once_ , had the title before finishing the fic and, man, it is satisfying when you drop the quote with the title in it


End file.
